Not To Be
by Luro4
Summary: My version of what Edith went through before she got back with Bertie. Angst. Please review, this is my first attempt at fanfiction.
1. Chapter 1

' _You know nothing of want, need, loneliness that breaks your soul. You haven't lain bleeding in a darkened room with your sin still fresh on your skin. You haven't waited hopelessly for help, as you lie with body and heart cracked and bleeding, torn apart because you couldn't love anyone.'_

Edith's words came back to Mary, and her mind filled with the look in Edith's eyes as she had spat the words out. Edith had been so filled with hatred in that moment, and Mary had quailed before her younger sister, conscious of the great burden Edith had borne. Edith was so changed, as she walked into the drawing room. Mary writhed with shame that she had so driven her sister away that Edith was forced to love whoever she could get. Michael Gregson hadn't loved Edith, Mary was sure of it. And Edith seemed to know, seemed to have known from the beginning.

Love had never been Mary's prize. She had valued petty things, money, titles, looks. Edith had only ever wanted love.

And she never had it. Not once.

Spurned by Patrick, jilted by Sir Anthony, deserted by Michael, betrayed by Bertie, no wonder Edith trusted no one.

Mary knew the trouble went far deeper than she could fathom. Edith had been hurt, scratched, defeated, broken, whipped and bitten by love so many times that she no longer trusted anyone, even her parents.

And God knows, they hadn't given her any reason to trust them.

When young, Edith was neglected, unloved. Entering adulthood, she was pushed into the background and forgotten. Then when someone finally realised her humanity her parents contrived to stop any chance of happiness for their unlucky middle child. They had decided her sister would marry her love, they had sewn doubts in Sir Anthony's mind, they had objected strongly to Michael, they had pointed out the unsuitability of Bertie before he was a Marquis.

So, no wonder Edith now stalked into the drawing room, anger etched on her features. Years of ordeals had left Edith altered in appearance. Cheeks once too plump hollowing out, weak jaw transformed to strong, once small eyes enlarged skilfully with makeup, hair stylishly arranged, all lending her beauty, not mere prettiness. Even Mary knew her sister was beautiful now. Mary's own beauty was fading, slim figure starting to look gaunt, cheekbones too hollo in her stark white cheeks. Raven black hair dusted with well concealed silver strands.

Edith settled into one of the chairs, lighting a cigarette. She exhaled smoke gracefully, something Mary had never managed to do.

'How is Henry?' Edith asked, more out of politeness than curiosity.

'He's up in London at the moment.' Mary's husband split his time between London and Downton.

Edith stubbed out her cigarette. 'And George?'

Mary sighed. 'You could find out for yourself, instead of staying locked in your room writing. I'm sure he'd like to see his one remaining Aunt.'

A rare flicker of sadness passed over Edith's face. Remembering Sybil always cast a pall. 'I do work, you know.'

'But surely you could spare half an hour to talk to your nephew?' Mary persevered.

Edith looked away. 'Ever since giving up Marigold, I can't look at my sisters' children. Even Sybbie.'

Mary flushed, sorry at having pushed Edith to remember something painful. She had been forced to give up her daughter to a couple in Kent after Robert refused to have the name tarnished. Edith hardly spoke to him these days.

'I wish-' Mary began but stopped. She didn't know whether to say this.

'You wish what?' Edith asked languidly.

'I wish I could say sorry, Edith.' Mary forced herself to go on. 'For ruining your life so many times, for all the snide comments I've made, for all the times I've done something to hurt you.'

Edith's eyes widened. 'I never meant to send that letter, you know.' She looked down. 'I had it written but didn't want to post it, I knew it wasn't right, then you made me angry, so I gave it to Carson to mail out of spite.' She bit her lip.

Mary took a sip of her brandy.

'I know I'm a spinster, and I know that therefore I can't give advice on marriage, but I want you to know that though your marriage to Matthew was short and painful at the end, it was far better than anything I ever experienced.'

Mary nodded s a tear slipped down her cheek. 'I know. And I'm glad our time was happy, even though I fell apart when he died.'

Edith sighed softly. 'I don't want to ruin the moment, Mary, but I never had that. Someone to share my life with. If I had married Anthony, or Patrick, or Michael, or Bertie, and he, whichever one, died shortly after, I think I would have still been happy, after I had gotten over it. But that was not meant to be.'

The quiet despair of her words echoed through the great cavernous house and escaped to the snow falling hopelessly onto the cracked ground.


	2. Chapter 2: Pain

Edith shivered as the familiar whisper of pain slid down her spine. The deep, dark blood blossomed on her arm and fell, drop by drop, to the grey tiles. The knife wavered, then slit deeper into her flesh. She smiled a strange, painful, twisted sort of a smile as the pain lit up the dark in her mind. She flashed her eyes closed as a memory tumbled out into her mind.

 _The nurse masked the worry on her face with a comforting smile. She turned to Aunt Rosamunde and said something in her ear. A flicker of concern dashed across Rosamunde's face, but she stepped forward and gently smoothed Edith's damp hair out of her eyes. Edith flung an arm up to her aunt, grasping her hand and holding on tightly. In that moment Edith had never wanted her own mother more._

' _Shhh, dear, it's not long now.' Aunt Rosamunde soothed, her own eyes belaying the words. Edith blocked the little part of her mind that whispered, 'She's lying,' and pushed hard, feeling like her loins were being torn apart. The nurse's eyes widened._

' _I can see the head.' She said, half-surprised. She had thought, they had all thought, that this birth would be terribly hard. Edith dug her nails into Rosamunde's arm in her struggle. Aunt Rosamunde never once complained about this unforeseen duty, this taking of her pregnant niece to Switzerland to give birth to an illegitimate child. Edith cried out as she pushed, harder this time and her nails drew blood._

 _When it was over, and she finally held her daughter in her arms, the joy she felt completely overwhelmed the pain of giving birth in a foreign country, without her sisters and parents, not in her own home._

Yet now, as Edith slumped to the cold tiles, that joy was dead. It had died the moment her daughter had been torn from her side and handed to the couple in Kent, along with a tidy sum of money and a warning. Her father hadn't spared her a glance as he took her child away.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The blood fell to the marble and splashed down the side of the big, empty, cold bath. Edith closed her eyes.

Pain was good. Pain kept you alive. Without pain, what are we? Pain drew the line across the sky, the line dividing fantasy and reality. Pain had stopped her from dying when they refused to understand.

Yet pain didn't solve everything. Edith knew that, somewhere in her throbbing mind. She knew it never lasts.

'This can't go on…' She said.


End file.
